Sunday, 12 January 2014

Week 122- being a sad sack, swearing at shopping and hanging out in Asda for a laugh...

I can't bear what a total sad sack I've become.

On Friday night, when I imagine most of the mid 30's population are either getting wrecked, hosting sophisticated dinner parties or having tons of sex, I was wandering round the aisles of Asda.

By choice.

As a treat to myself.

When did the cross over to complete weaner happen?

Probably around the same time as the invites to go out dried up.

I just don't know what to do with myself these days.

Evenings are a virtual right off, as I'm either too knackered to do anything other than heat up pasta and pesto for the 27th night running.

Or on the odd occasion I have made it out into the real world of socialising, I quietly fume about how fricking expensive a glass of coke is in the pub.

Which I don't really want to drink in the first place cos I'm not thirsty.

Or 13.

I can't remember what it's like not to be pregnant.

Not to be a people carrier.

Not to lie in bed at night and feel like someone's knocking on a heavy solid oak door from the inside. 

Not to have to down Gaviscon straight out the bottle after every meal as the acid reflux takes over.

To be able to see my pubes without having to stand in a full length mirror and hold up my stomach to work out what's going on down there and if it's worth the fifteen quid to get a wax or to just wait another three months and be faced with an unpleasant surprise.

I can't remember what it's like to wear clothes that aren't 99% Lycra and a size 14-16.

To walk up a flight of stairs without breaking into a sauna sweat and panting so much I can't finish a sentence.

To be able to pick something off the floor and not have to ask for someone to give me a hand getting up as I think I might be stuck like an upturned beetle.

And more than anything, I can't remember what it's like to have a decent Friday night.

So. Asda.

I thought I'd get Nancy one of those potty seats that fits inside the normal loo.

And what better time to do it than 7pm on a Friday night.

Turns out I'm not the only one who goes there of a weekend for entertainment.

As I cruised the aisles wondering if I'd be a better person if I bought Whole Earth peanut butter, I realised I was not alone.

I spotted at least six other lone pregnant women slowly making there way round the supermarket, and I would put money on it that they're expecting at least their second child.

Them and a multitude of weirdos who I can only assume have no concept of time or social norm.
My favourite was an obese man with Tourette's who was swearing loudly at the 'Oops' section. I hung round there for quite a bit to listen to him.

So 2 hours, fifty quid lighter and several bags worth of luxury items that don't even make a meal when eaten in conjunction with each other later, I made my way home.

And it was only as I parked up that I remembered the bloody potty seat.

All is not lost though, I can always go back next weekend.

Now that's something to look forward to.